Saturday, January 28, 2023


Panic? It's a perfect time to panic! Not the fight or flight kind, you silly. 

One of the readers just posted on a friend's blog (thank you, JM) that he couldn't comment on my blog and he left the loveliest comment, by the way, you can read it here at the very bottom.

Does anyone experience any problem with comments on Blogger? Can you please try to leave a comment, and if you can't, please send me a message, I just added an Ask me form on the right. And it seems that my blogroll is not getting updated properly...

Question: does Blogger have any profanity filters, like blocking comments or posts based on the certain words we like to use?? Because I don't mind using asterisks, I think everyone here can decipher the word c*ck without any problem.


BTW, the post in question was Tanning the tan lines from yesterday.

Friday, January 27, 2023

Tanning the tan lines (with JM)

Lovely Jean Marie of Butt Stuff posted about tan lines here. Since I'm a huge sucker for tan lines myself, I replied with a snippet, JM picked it up and took it further, and on we went. Then JM got busy and I just finished the story with a twist. 

Aaand, the Saturday Spankings are around the corner, so I linky linked it, see the link at the bottom.

Sore is more:

He dragged his tongue across her cheek along the sharp tan line that divided it perfectly in half, wondering if it would taste differently, and yes, it did indeed. The paler, almost alabaster triangle, was smoother and more tender to the touch than the few shades darker part on the other side of the border, roughed up by unforgiving Mediterranean sun.

Jean Marie:

He takes his cue from that unforgiving sun. He would “rough-up” the tender, alabaster skin for her. He begins to spank her, but not like you would a naughty child. This was a very adult disciplining, hard slaps across both ass cheeks, making her cry out, making her beg and plead. She sees that this makes no difference, so just hides her face in the crook of her elbow, and offers her ass up to his hiding, this tanning where she wasn’t tan.

When he finally stops, they both cannot help but rub the abused flesh, magnetized by the radiating warmth, mesmerized by the rosy color. He rubs lotion into the skin as if it was sunburned. It was Sirburned, and she got down on her knees to thank him. She worshiped his erect dick as he had her erotic derriere.

Sore is more:

“A proper young lady –” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he let it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent as he puts it securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder; a triumphant grin stretching her lips morphs into a hesitant frown when she sees him folding the belt in half. An eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable, his eyes, kind and playful just a few minutes ago, now flooded with disappointment and hurt. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still the shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'." 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the bed. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of the punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip to not mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already swollen bottom. 

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with when it all started tonight. He drags her to the edge of the bed and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of hers to keep them from flying off.

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." Deep breath out. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all came to this single moment that he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast to let her apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. 

He falls on the bed next to her and pulls her closer and away from the edge. He's drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over in a record time. Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.

Wednesday, January 25, 2023

Pink with a touch of purple


Here they were, ripe luscious globes, rapidly getting that warm pink hue with a touch of purple, boiling hot, tender to the touch, sweet, delicious, smelling of cinnamon with a whiff of vanilla. 

Ahem, I was talking about making the apricot jam. I know, no good deed shall go unpunished.

Such a sweet way to start the day! Some apricots were about to go bad, so I threw them in the pot together with leftover blackberries and a heap of sugar, and voila, the jam was on the way, and my deprived imagination was taking notes, rolling the reality and the fantasy in one...

Now, get off your lazy bums and go read  Never in Anger  or any of my stories and comment! Pretty please with a purple blackberry on top...

Monday, January 23, 2023

Never in Anger Song

Never in anger
Never in fear
Feeding my hunger
Consciousness clear 

Voice low and curt
Cue butterflies and shivers
Willing but hurt
Is the hesitant giver 

Clear that slate
Wipe out that guilt
Never too late
To confess what I feel 

Safer than ever
Sting of the cane
Lick of the leather 
Consented and sane 

Holding high court
Not allowed to veer
Belt folded short
Spells business and tears 

Smack of the hand or
Stroke of the belt
Swish of a hanger
Doled out and dealt 

Taut, bound, and sore
It's never a game
My body and soul are
Yours only to claim 

Thud of the paddle
Whisk of the whip
Rise off the saddle
Taking the leap 

Drowned in pain
Covered in snot
Naked and seen
Judged I'm not 

Bye, dear fairies
Back on your lap
Humbled and bleary
Closing the gap 

Seeking surrender
Crimson and over
Sinfully tender
Dutiful lover 

Malleable rebel
Cherished and loved
By the guardian devil 
Sent from above 

Stilled, acquiesced
And knelt in the night
Thanks for the rescue 
My fearless knight

Sunday, January 22, 2023

Sore is More (teaser)

Kathryn posted a very interesting comment on my Personal page here. It took me a while to figure out how to respond, and I think my reply to her deserves a separate post and I need to expand on it as well:

IMHO and confirmed by my research into the matter, dominance can exist without any punishment component, especially natural dominance. But let's not mix fiction with reality, as all my stories are fictional, and yes, they are not standalone stories but excerpts from the future book.

My biggest dilemma is that I butchered my lovely vanilla novel (steamy vanilla with a few kinks here and there) by throwing it into the direction of spanking, I was even trying to keep it at PG-13 but, alas, that train left the station long time ago.

I didn't post that very first spanking scene yet, but I still stand my ground that I got it right, on pure intuition. It's highly controversial even within the spanko realm. I don't like labels, but I think the closest is a Service Dom, that's what Nick will eventually become to Izzie, and I never read or heard of any novels about Service Doms, it's almost like a curse word or so I heard. 

Izzie and Nick do not switch, but the power exchange is fluid, going back and forth, sometimes within the same scene. It's more of yes-ma'am than yes-sir. Lots of drama and lots of fun to write! Oh boy, how did my somewhat vanilla book ended up with this??

The scene in question, promptly called Sore is More, was inspired by the famous spanking scene in Outlander, that's what Izzie was watching on TV. Now, to whet your appetite:

Nick yanks the door to the drawing room, and with the sound of the opening door, the TV goes off, but not before he could catch a glimpse of what Izzie was watching, and he doesn't like it, not one little bit.

"I saw it, you were watching it again, you perv," Nick points at the black TV screen.

"I can't help myself,” she protests. "It's hot as fuck."

"Darling, you can't admit it in the civilized society." Nick sinks into the couch, and she straddles his hips.

"We won't stay civilized for long. What is my safeword?" Hand curled around his neck, she whispers in his ear.

"Don Quixote. I want to stay civilized."

and now, Sore is More part:

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"Who's a beggar in this scenario?"

"Me, of course." She sighs with discontent. "I still can't believe that he didn't fuck her right after."

"She was in pain!" The things you have to explain to this woman. Medieval!

"Exactly. My heart bleeds for him and his dick. But you will fuck me after, right?" Izzie coos seductively. "You won't be a pussy like him?" 

Nick pinches his nose. Pale, another shade of pale. His face goes from pale to blush and back to a whiter shade of pale. "Are you sure, you are not running one of those anti-feminist groups?"

"I ghost write the slogans for them. Listen. His choice is my choice. I don't own my pussy, my man does. Sore is more, that's my favourite. One more, umm, sore ass, not sorry ass."

"And we're back to the ass," Nick closes his eyes.

We all heard of topping from the bottom, many of us guilty as charged. But what do you know or heard about Service Doms?

Saturday, January 21, 2023

Count Me Down (Carpe Diem)

I can't believe it, I found a Carpe Diem T-shirt today, see the picture above! You will have to read the story to find out why I'm so excited.

That soft weary voice on the phone, so endearing and tantalising in his begging, and yet she can't resist the urge to drag on and play him because that's what he wants, that's what she wants, whether she admits it to herself or not. 

“Izzie? Are you in bed? I can't see.”  

She moves the phone camera around, she’s indeed sitting on the bed. “Izzie who?” 

“My morning star,” he responds like it’s the only possible answer. 

“Good god, what do you need so badly?” 

“Can you count me down? Please?” 

Who can say no, when he is pleading like that, looking like the original sin, all bundled up in a white hotel robe, propped on one elbow, the other hand combing through the wet hair, trying to look better for her? Is it even humanly possible to look better than that? “You know, there are phone lines with professionals for that.” 

“I can't dial those numbers from my phone. Besides, I want to hear your voice.”

“How sweet. From a hundred?” 

“More like from twenty.” 

“I see, already warmed up. Give me one good reason why should I.” 

“I had a rough day. “

“When don't you?”

“When I get to talk to you at the end of the day.” 

“My, my, such a blatant suck up.” 

“Touch you at the end of the day.“

“What else?” 

“Are you wet?” Nick asks. 


“Check now.“

Her hand slides under the covers. She quickly wipes her fingers and wiggles her hand in front of the phone. “Not even the slightest.” 

“I just saw you wiping your fingers.” 

“Oh, did you now?” 

“Will you come for me? “

“Not today,” Izzie replies, and gets a happy giggle from Nick. “Why are you giggling, numpty?” She didn’t call him a numpty for so long, it short-circuits his already struggling brain.

“It was a perfunctory ask.” Nick confesses with ease, despite the voice in his head calling him a numbnut, she can kill you for less, you daft git. Let me be, Nick pleads to the voice, for once she accepts me for what I am. Let me be.

“When you want the answer to be ‘no’. You are such an –"

“Manipulative narcissist?” he asks, and she lets it slide too. 

“An arse.” 

“That I am. I hate when you come without me.” 

“I hate that too. Go on. Carpe diem, Nicky.” 

“I will carpe diem your brains out when I'm back.” 

“You will, Nicky.” 

“You will be begging for me to stop.” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“Why am I doing all the talking?” Nick whines an octave higher, breaking the character.

“Because that's what you do for a living,” she coos.

“I do, I do,” he’s back on track. 

“Because your mouth is not otherwise occupied.” 

“Sadly.” Nick's camera falls and stays pointed at the ceiling. 


“Yes, ma'am.” 

“No further questions. Tits?” 

“Yes, please.” 

She pulls her t-shirt over her head. Throws her hair over one shoulder. “Ready, cowboy?”  Silence. “Can't believe how easy you are.” 


“Yes, that's what I said, easy.” 


Aaaand that's how you do it when apart. Thank you, Hermione, for the reminder! Some fluff read for the weekend. Enjoy and don't forget to click on the Almond Croissant to read all the other stories and comment. I command you to comment! Pretty please...

Thursday, January 19, 2023

Mermaid Needs New Legs

UPDATE: now includes link to the poem Never in anger, never in fear as part of the story.

What on Earth is Nick wearing? A ridiculous puffed shirt, long brown vest, can’t see the britches because he’s sitting down on the couch. It’s not the fisherman costume that I bought, it’s the pirate costume from the Pirate and the Duchess, that we both hated. The pirate costume, not the Duchess, of course. Nick loved the Duchess and showered her with all his attention Nick-style; first, the way the I like it, rough and hard, ahem, the way any typical everyman’s Pirate would treat a captured Duchess, warming the way to her heart by thoroughly warming her bottom, and then the way Nick likes it, as gentle as ever, that is.

Nick is furiously typing away on his laptop. It always amazes me how fast he types, how fast he talks, how fast he moves. Always. Except when he is with me, the world stands to a halt, like he has all the time in the world. And I blew it, again. 

Nick raises his index finger without turning his head, not stopping to type for one millisecond. Do not disturb or else. And then the left hand just goes back and joins the right one. I still hold my gloves that stink of the wet dog, Bear was sitting on my lap in the car, so the coat is wet and stinks too. The suffocating smell is everywhere, and I cough. Damn it! 

“I can smell that retched dog on you from here. Take off all your clothes and get rid of them, or you will be coughing the whole night.” That index finger again, and he is back to work. I silently nod and do what I’m told, a good girl that I am, yeah, like it’s going to change anything. “Go take a hot shower, while you are at it,” comes the next command from the couch.

When I open the bathroom door, all squeaky clean, wrapped in his favourite fluffy robe with pink flowers and a towel turban on my head, Nick is still working. He has some sixth sense, because without turning around he says, “Dry your hair, will you? You have time.”

I try not to think of what ‘you have time’ means and with a vengeance flip the hairdryer on the loudest setting while standing in the doorway, in a last-minute sudden spurt of brattiness. Nick clears his throat loud enough for me to squirm and shut the door quickly. Hair dry and tied in a high ponytail, I reach for the body lotion and stop. An eternal dilemma, to put the lotion on or not, I weigh all the pros and cons. Nick likes the smell a lot, but it will hurt so much more, and I don’t remember, if Nick remembers it. What if he does and goes easy on me, then the lotion will do its silent job. Right, lotion it is.

Nick stands by the window with the thick and wide leather belt he just took off, the fisherman’s belt I got for today’s play on Etsy. “Where did you buy this monstrosity and for what purpose?” He smacks the back of the couch with a deafening crack. “It can break bones, you know. To strangle you with it? Or better, hang myself?” Nick quickly sheds off the vest, the puffed shirt, and the britches, down to the black boxer briefs and barefoot. “Itchy!” He disappears in the closet, but the tirade continues. “May I remind, I haven’t seen you for three days? All I wanted is to come home, make sweet love to you, have a nice quiet dinner, just the two of us, watch some TV, and, if we are both in the mood, have another go. Is it too much to ask?” Ah-sk. Mad as a hatter, red as a beet. No, he’s not mad, frustrated, yes.

“I’m sorry, Nick.”

“That’s how fishermen dress up in my village, deal with it.” He comes out tucking the dress shirt into dark dress pants and puts on one of his regular belts. I wince but mentally thank him for not changing into the sweatpants. At least I know what’s in the store tonight.

“Are we still doing it?”

“Of course. The mermaid needs new legs, isn’t she? What’s her name?”


“Muriel the Mermaid. And the fisherman’s?”


“I don’t like Frank. I will be Flynn.”

“Why Flynn?”

“It’s a good name for a fisherman, Flynn the Fisherman,” he repeats. “A big, rough fisherman, is that what you want?” he riles up, and I decide to pretend that the question was rhetorical, maybe it was, because Nick has no trouble to rant on. “You said, you are sorry. For which part are you sorry, Iz? The mermaid and the fisherman part, or you getting lost alone with this retched dog part, or me, losing my mind over it, thankfully, only for twenty minutes? Where is your mermaid costume?”

“I thought that…" 

“Don’t think. Chop-chop, I’m starving.”

“But what about this afternoon?”

“You wanted your bottom red, you’re getting one. You think the fisherman can’t deal with a wayward mermaid? She’ll get more than she signed up for, that’s for sure. He is not a gentle guy, like me, you know. It seems like you do not appreciate me, is that right, Izzie? Or, shall I say, Muriel?” His voice goes up another notch.

“Nick, you’re mad at me.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“You’re scaring me!” 

That’s stops him right in his tracks. “Never in anger, never in fear,” he recites from the poem we wrote together. Hands in his hair, he combs it through back and forth with open fingers. “Alright, I’m going to grab a quick bite. Do you want anything?”

“I ate.” I lie quickly, and Nick raises an eyebrow. “I had late lunch. Nick, I can’t eat now, I will eat after.”

“After,” he shudders, “that’s the word. The story of my life, feeding you after.”

“Can you please go already and come back quickly?” I plead.

“When I come back, Muriel,” he enunciates, “I expect to see a mermaid here, wig on, tail and all, bum in the air. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Flynn,” I whisper. Thank you.”

“For what??” he snaps.

“For not backing out.”

For all other stories in order click on My Stories or Almond Croissant on the right.

Monday, January 16, 2023

Death, Taxes, and Belt

This story is a bit of a Dead Dove Do Not Eat variety, so proceed at your own risk. I promise there is a happy ending, as Aldous is Izzie's evil ex-husband, she left years ago. Mandy is Nick's ex-wife.

The memories that are flooding her brain, no, she's never going to tell Nick any of this. How she was lying on that rocking spanking bench, ball-gagged, hands tied behind her back, whipped into delirium, whimpering. How Aldous stepped on the runner to stop the bench from moving and pulled the gag out of her mouth. 

"What were you trying to say, doll?" Aldous asked. 

"Don... Don Quixote," she whispered her safeword. 

"Too bad, I'm done now." How the cold lube splattered on the small of her back. "What do you say now, doll?" 

"Please, Aldous, please. I learned my lesson!" 

"Tsk-tsk, that's not what you say, doll." He spread the lube over her reddened cheeks. It was one of those warming lubes, that was supposed to tingle, but on the whipped skin it burned like hell, same as fresh ginger juice or capsaicin cream. "Or should I pick up the belt again?" 

"No, no, sir," she writhed in pain. 

"Then say it." Aldous pressed two fingers till they sank in. 

"I'm just a hole, sir," she blurted it out in one burst. 

"Atta girl, now say it again, slower, and with more enthusiasm." 

Izzie stares at her shaking fingers. For the life of her, she doesn't know how to explain, what was a brutal nightmare with Aldous, would be a dream come true with Nick. But Nick is not ready for any of it. Not today, not now. The only thing she wants is to get out of here for Christmas. Next year will be different. There will be a whole year to figure it out. 

"That Christmas," she clears her throat,  "Aldous bought me a spanking horse, as a gift, and a Gucci scarf to tie my hands. I left him for good on New Year's Eve. Happy?" 

And the same as on The Day She Came Back, Nick crosses the distance between them in one move. Does he slide, like tennis players on a clay court? He holds her tight, as if his embrace can protect her from all the evil in the world, and in this moment, it feels like he can. 

"May I please kill him?" Nick says ever so plainly. 

"I consented. We were trying a new… dynamic, and I failed." 

"You failed? Izzie, I do know the difference between consent and abuse." 

"I consented." 

He holds onto her shoulders to look at her face. "What the fuck, Iz? You kept in touch with him. Hell, you were trying to conceive with him right up until you met me." 

"I did not sleep with Aldous since I left him!" she steps back. 

"I know, he told me." 

"What did he tell you?" 

"Ask her about the turkey baster, he said. Quite self-explanatory if you ask me."

"I wanted a baby, he was still my husband, legally. What was I supposed to do? Get pregnant from a stranger I picked up at..."

"Please continue, I dare you." Nick bites his lower lip, hands in his pockets,

"Piss off, Nick, not now," she pauses. "Stockholm syndrome. I don't know, the devil you know?" 

"Oh please! You let me be 'friends' with him, so to speak, I invited him into my house. For crying out loud, he slept with Mandy."

"More like, Mandy slept with him," Izzie rolls her eyes.

"Do you understand what you did?? Couldn't you bring this to my attention earlier?" Izzie buries her face on his chest, and that alone switches off his anger and into a protector that he is, first and foremost. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, forget everything I said." He pulls her into a bear hug, his lips pressing onto the top of her head. "I need to talk to Mandy. I can't let him anywhere near you, her, kids. Please don't go away, Iz. Not now, not fucking now." 

That’s just bloody epic, with Izzie on his lap, on the verge of a bloody nervous breakdown, he needs to deal with his ex-wife, aka Hurricane Mandy, thankfully on the phone.

“Mandy, Mandy, listen to me. I’m going to say it only once. I’ve just promised Izzie not to kill Aldous and not to put him in jail, and I’m not sure how to keep this promise. You’re not to see him ever again… Yes, that bad. You can get on Tinder and fuck half of  the tri-state area, I will say, good for her and give you a five-star review for excellent deepthroating skills... Why Uber? No reviews on Tinder? How do you know?.. No, I don’t give a fuck, I just told you. Have a nice and restless night!”

Free from the phone, his right hand presses Izzie’s head under his chin, fingers combing through her hair, touching her motionless shoulders, noticing how quiet she had gone. Gone.

Not today, not now but she will tell him one day. How she plays in her head this nightmare of a scene, an all-time numero uno mover and shaker of her personal wank bank. How the cameras roll every bloody time she is about to come, from the perfect vantage point of a pitiful but useless guardian angel, floating somewhere above, just underneath the mirrored ceiling, watching her old self, pinned down and screaming under the belt rising and falling in slow motion, as inevitable as death and taxes, on her crimson cheeks. Yes, that’s it, death, taxes, and belt. How she chants the words faster and faster until…

“Nick?” she cries out, holding onto the words that burn the bridges. Startled, he shakes his head slowly, sensing the disaster, begging not to speak, no more. She presses a single finger to his lips and takes the leap. “When I get off... it helps me to get off… in my mind, I see myself on that spanking horse, and I scream, please sir, I learned my lesson.”

“You mean, when you are by yourself?” he offers her a meek way out.

“Every time. I’m sorry.”

“When I make you come, you see Aldous beating the shit out of you, did I hear it right?”

“Nick, I’m so sorry.” 

To read all the stories in order click here  I was hesitating to ask you, what would Nick do, but I'm afraid that the answer would be unanimous (Thank you, Hermione!). Hold your horses though, nothing is simple when it comes to Nick... 

Thursday, January 12, 2023

Good Girl

Two stories for the price of one today.

First, a personal one. Someone casually called me a good girl in a business conversation, thankfully over the phone. While shocked, I played along and responded with 'yes, I am.'  But after I hung up, my brain short-circuited. You never call 'a good girl' another man's good girl. Never ever ever, you useless prick! And that is my rant of the day.

The second one is fiction, a part of the same series about Izzie and Nick, that happened in the very early days of their relationship, hence the reaction to these two magic words. Enjoy!


Finally, the perfect height. Izzie is perched on the gazebo’s railing, Nick stands between her legs, hot and bothered, again. And so is she.

"A condom?" he nods to her beach bag on the floor.

"In my beach bag? Who do you think I am?" Izzie jerks away like from a blow. Annoyed, frustrated, vulnerable, and, most of all, exhausted. The fuckfest that started last night is taking a toll on her.

He does not hesitate, but the brutal honesty and the raw desire are not what she needs right now. "The most amazing woman in the world. Now, chop-chop," he plops the bag on the railing next to her hip.

"You are so mean," her eyes swell with tears.

"I streamlined the events in the direction we both want them to go. Do we?" he tries to meet her eyes, seeking confirmation. Her hand disappears in the bag and fishes out a foil package.

"Good girl," he murmurs and extends his hand palm up.

"No!" she hides it behind her back, looking up, burning him up with her stare. "Do you always take what you want?"

"Only what's willfully given, yes. Didn't you do most of the taking yesterday?"

"I don't do checks and balances in sex."

"Me neither, and we are both lying." Her face looks so small cradled in his hands. His dark brown eyes, as endearing and relentless as ever.

"Please don't cry. Izzie, why are you crying?"

"I don't know. I feel so empty and full at the same time."

"Me too. Like a house on fire but I’m the house and the fire."

"You're still riding the high, and I'm crashing." Her usually restless hands hover slowly over his, dropping the foil on the ground. Nick's eyes trace it, not daring to move his head, and return to Izzie's.

"Good boy," she is quick to return the insult. Good boy knows when to back out and when to give more. No checks and balances here.

"Do you want me to bring you back up?" he whispers in her ear.

"Yes. Yes, I do. Will you eat me?" she asks like someone would ask for a glass of water. If that's what it takes to get back into her good graces, he will stay on his knees forever.

"With greatest pleasure but not now. You still smell of me, from that time in the ocean. I will gag like a high school girl on her first blowie."

She lets out a chuckle, and it melts his heart. She's back, smiling at him again.

"Are you a half-dog?" she asks.

"Hell, no. When you sat on my shoulders, the smell was right there. I can offer you some digital magic," he wiggles his fingers in front of her face.

"No," she pouts.

He puts together his index and middle finger and bends the rest in a fist. "Doesn't it look like an average size dick?" he continues, unbearably smug.

"You're so full of it."

"I know, but isn't it fun?"

"Who knew you could be so much fun?"

"I knew it." That cocky bastard.

"Not stroking your ego."

"You can stroke something else." His suggestion falls on deaf ears.

"No, to stroking. Yes, to magic," she delivers the verdict.

She turns half-way and shuffles, so her back rests against the post, one foot now propped up on the railing, the other foot dangling uncomfortably in the air. Not wide open, but an invitation nonetheless. Nick places his foot on a beam a foot off the ground and moves her dangling leg over to rest on his bent knee. 


"Kiss me," she nods.

He kisses her sloppily in the delicious valley between her small breasts. She pulls him up by his hair. "You didn't specify where," he protests as he covers her mouth with his.

God bless women who wear dresses and skirts and the sounds one can draw from them.


"That's a new sound! Here?"

"Awww! Nicky! Un b√Ętard formidable*..."

*You wonderful bastard (inspired by Stromae'song Formidable)

To read all my fiction in order click here 

Monday, January 9, 2023

Kept Calm and Carried On

UPDATE: for the most updated list of all the stories please click on the Almond Croissant or on My Stories

Good things are worth repeating twice: yep, Kept Calm and Carried On. (The picture is of the Original 1939 poster, Public Domain. Thank you, Wiki!)

The famous list of how to say you-know-what without using the actual word, got A LOT of additions, and hopefully will keep growing. 

For the full list click here: Let's start it with a BANG! which was complimentary to Bonnie's list that you can find here: Let me count the ways

If we are already talking about Bonnie, this song was dedicated to Bonnie: A Bottom Song

And more shameless plugs, to read all my stories, just click on the tag FICTION or follow the current Izzie + Nick timeline:

Early vanilla days but quite steamy:
Good Girl

The Disaster a.k.a. Sore is More (coming soon)

Reconciliation (coming soon)

Negotiation (coming soon)

Fun and Games:

Which one is your favourite story so far and why? Let's encourage some constructive criticism. Permission to speak freely.

Did you read all the stories, no? Then you gotta get one from the promised additions:

    Yanked her pants down NEW
    Had it coming NEW
    Got his undivided attention NEW

    Made things right NEW
    Right the wrong NEW
    Set the record straight NEW

    Straightened up NEW
    Undressed and addressed NEW
    Bit the biscuit/pillow/bullet NEW
    Served with a wooden spoon NEW
    Reined in and rained on NEW
    Mastered and commanded NEW
    Called the shots and shouts NEW
    Tend and attend NEW
    Run the backside show NEW
    Curtly corrected NEW
    Settled a scorching score NEW
    Kept calm and carried on NEW and my new favourite!

   Fainting fingerprints NEW
   Lasting lashes NEW

and more, in no particular order:
   Taut and taught NEW

Which one is your new favourite?

As always, I appreciate each and every one of your comments, because without them, as Bonnie once said, it's not different from a teenager's diary kept under the mattress.